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caldrail

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  1. caldrail
    2014. At last. All those god awful christmas songs have been put back on the shelf for another eleven months and life returns to normal. Apart from floods in Britain and blizzards in the US, or the usual woes of war and famine elsewhere.
     
    There's also been a distinct lack of a Rapture - that's when Jesus returns and magically transports his believers into paradise leaving behind their worldly goods, which lets face it, would be a charter for looters here in Blighty. You have to admire End Timers for sheer stubborness in the face of reality. Ever since the Great Disappointment of 1844 they've been waiting for Jesus to get his act together - Still hasn't happened. Oh but it will, they tell us, and those of us not whisked away will suffer drunkeness, looting, and party political broadcasts.
     
    What kind of year has it been for me? Well, I've been Lord Caldrail for four years now and suprisingly it seems to be gaining some acceptance in the hallowed halls of the local Job Centre. Who would have thought the last bastion of working class socialism in Britain would find it in their hearts to recognise that dole claimants aren't all the same? So I look forward to another year of progress and who knows? Perhaps there really is gold at the end of a rainbow, a car that really is what the adverts describe, a lost city of Atlantis waiting to be discovered, or a government that will get it right.
     
    A Dog Is For Christmas
    Pets seem to be perrennial gifts and sadly, as we know, many get discarded one way or another. A mate of mine has had a different experience. His erstwhile girlfriend decided the dog was too cute to be left behind and departed with the animal. From what he tells me it was turning into a strange sort of 'tug-of-love' contest, but not only is the confused animal now back with its original owner, my friend has inherited a another puppy to keep it company. Of course putting two dogs together causes a slight problem in that they had to negotiate social status, rights, and pecking order, resulting in growls, chases, bitten fingers, much shouting and the usual chaos of animal interaction. However, all is well, as the next day he came downstair in the morning to discover that a treaty had been signed and both dogs were curled up asleep together. Awwww... Cute.... Well it was Christmas after all.
     
    Job Interview Of The Week
    A few days previously I'd applied for a job over the internet. The recruitment agency tried to get in touch, I tried to get in touch with them, but between the vagaries of my mobile phone and the hussle and bussle of recruitment, somehow contact was as easy as contacting space aliens on Planet Zarg.
     
    However, in the evening I received a phone call from a lady who wasn't my contact at the agency, but who was following up the application nonetheless. At least something's happening. She asked what I normally applied for then enquired why did I want this job?
     
    Well, it has something to do with being unemployed, needing to pay my bills, and satisfying a government hell bent on forcing me into the gutter. It isn't difficult to understand.
     
    Actually, it turned out she didn't understand. Not only was she unable to grasp why I applied for the job, she went into a minor tantrum and tried to give me the benefit of her opinions. Hmmm... Think I'll hang up and leave her to it. Clearly a woman without a dog this year.
  2. caldrail

    2015 Part One

    By caldrail,

    Woo hoo! 2015! Yeah. 2015. Who would have thought we'd make it this far? What with the Nostrodamus prophecies of global apocalyptic disaster, global warming, outbreaks of Ebola, christians preaching the return of Jesus and mysterious disappearances, the relentless advance of the electric car, my unemployment benefit payments cancelled, no heating in my home, and finally discovering that being more than fifty years of age really does mean you have to resort to a bus pass.
     
    The other day I had a phone call from somebody. Not sure who it was, but they enquired about my involvement in a road accident two and half years ago. Hang on... That would mean the summer of 2012... I haven't driven a car since 2008, which means the only auy I could have gotten involved was if I had driven through a time-space anomaly, the sort of thing my claims advisor stops a claimants money for. Wow. Some accident.
     
    New years Resolution
    I faithfully undertake not to have so many car accidents.
     
    Bird In The Hand
    "Look!" Said the slovakian forklift driver, pointing toward the edge of the racking. Yes. I can see it. What's the big deal? I mean, it's just another piece of rubbish on the floor. I'll pick it up as I go by...
     
    "No, look!" He insisted. Then I saw what the big deal was. Not a piece of rubbish, but an actual little brown bird, sat there on the squeaky pale blue dusty floor, trapped in a strange rectilinear forest of cardboard, wood, and steel that we know as a warehouse. I know how it feels.
     
    A Pop Song Too Far
    I happened to catch a television documentary the other day. All about those Swedish superstars, Abba. You know, they may not be exactly the coolest artists to remember from the seventies, but face it, without them, where would Brotherhood of Man be?
     
    Truth is I found listening to all those familiar hits from long ago difficult to deal with. So synonomous with my formative years that all those uncomfortably embarrasing memories of being an awkward teenager came flooding back. It wasn't that I had any particular fantasy about the two lovely ladies (and none about their male partners), it's just that Abba were everywhere in those days. Television, radio, music stores... Inescapable.
     
    Of course these days I'm a bit older and now I've reached the age where being embarrasing is fun. Such as my guitar playing, military surplus trousers, and a complete inability to balance when the bus is in motion.
     
    Mystery Of The Week
    So now if you'll excuse me, I have another episode of Star Trek related entertainment to wait for. In the meantime I sit there watching the Father Dowling Mysteries. Not that the program entertains me you see, it's just that I live in hope I'll catch the episode where Father Dowling finally succumbs to temptation and seduces Sister Stephanie on one of their late night stakeouts of the villains HQ. I know this sort of thing goes on... I've listened to Abba lyrics.
  3. caldrail

    A Bit Hard To Believe

    By caldrail,

    Life in urban England is often portrayed as a struggle against ignorance, decay, violence, and theft. I've made the same noises myself sometimes, so I guess there's a little truth to it, having witnessed the depressing state that society sometimes gets into. Of course there are those who want to stop the destructive tendencies in our midst. A worthy cause, or perhaps a cause to further someones poltiical career?
     
    The trouble with dealing with problems of this nature is the uncompromising response it requires. To stifle violence one may well need more than the courage of their conviction, especially if the offenders sense they are stronger than you.. All too often, we don't want to get involved. Self preservation is a natural instinct though perhaps not our most glorious one. On the other hand, there are incidents in which those willing to stand their ground pay the price in injury or even death.
     
    Public behaviour seems to rising to the fore just of late. In particular, the easy availability of alcohol and the gimmicks designed to sell it are very much in focus as recent calls for controls on alcohol sales have demonstrated. However, things have gotten a litle more ridiculous. It's been suggested that mock fights should be staged on city streets in England to test and provoke public response. The idea, as far as I can tell, is almost to educate the public that they too can help maintain law and order on the streets. Possibly they can. However I wonder if this 'training' isn't more likely to result in more casualties, because confrontations are as likely to provoke violence as constrain it, and much depends on perceived threat. The attempt to create a community spirit that is willing to risk violence brings with it the risk of vigilante behaviour, and as is often recorded in news stories, the risk of finding yourself on the wrong side of the law in trying to confront others is very real, whatever politicans like to say.
     
    I'm reminded of a story I once read in a magazine many years ago, a true one apparently, although much of the detail I've forgotten since my teenage years. It concerned four men in the 'Wild West' at the end of the nineteenth century. They planned to rob a bank, and strode calmly inside holding the good people at gunpoint whilst they collected the money as quietly as possible. Unfortunately for them, an ice-cream seller (proof this wasn't a 'one-horse' town) recognized some of the baddies, and alerted the townsfolk. When the four robbers left the bank thinking they'd gotten away with a healthy sack of customers cash, they found themselves facing a town full of armed and aggrieved citizens. They were all shot dead.
     
    Is that really what British authorities want? The Police always tell us to phone them in such situations, and certainly the firearm laws in Britain preclude shooting villains without some form of legal restraint. The same applies to baseball bats and missiles. We are allowed 'appropriate' levels of violence to defend ourselves. Are we then allowed the same to confront others? What is 'appropriate' levels of violence? The considered appraisal of a judge in a courtroom, or the snap decision in the heat of the moment? It seems a bit hard to believe that to counter violence the public are being asked to risk it.
     
    Cattle Dog of the Week
    On my way to a session at the College yesterday I bumped into an old chap walking his dog, an incredibly cute canine with perky ears and stumpy legs. We got chatting and naturally I asked what breed it was. He did tell me the name, but I've forgotten it. However he explained it was a Swedish Cattle Dog.
     
    Oh? They have dwarf cattle in Sweden? The old chap was right. It is a bit hard to believe.
     
  4. caldrail

    A Bitter Pill

    By caldrail,

    Bad colds or flu can be nasty. It creeps up on you and hits you like a brick wrapped in tinfoil. Coughing, sweating, dizzy, limbs aching, totally unable to sleep. We've all been there so I guess you know what I mean.
     
    Isn't it strange that medicinal products function in direct proportion to their taste? The palatable ones don't do anything for you at all. But those ghastly horrible noxious products that make you sweat with anticipation of its vile taste work like a charm. We have a product in Britain - I don't know what the rest of the world call it - but its advertised as a miracle cure for colds and flu. Of course is isn't, it just makes you feel better for a few hours, but I'm definitely feeling a lot more like your average Caldrail. Now.... Is that because the stuff really is a miracle cure, or is it because I can't bear the thought of another dose?
     
    However, there are some substances you shouldn't really touch. I'm not into drugs. Never was. Never saw the point. If you need a pill to enjoy yourself then you're not doing so. There was one instance in my past though when I encountered such things.
     
    I don't mean the offer of cannabis from some lowlife in a club. Its inevitable that having been involved in rock bands I was going to encounter it. Funny thing is, I was very rarely offered any. Maybe I looked spaced out already so they never bothered?
     
    No. Something more insidious happened. So lets explain the background.
     
    I used to work for a large retail chain, and my responsibilities were to manage the database overnight and download the picking data for the next day onto the scanning guns. It was a lonely sort of job that. The only human contact I had was a cleaner who popped in every two or three days to scatter my papers over the floor, and the good lady who worked in the office along the way. She was a tolerant sort luckily. Not so the workforce. Comprised of the usual layabouts and ner'do'wells, I'd become somewhat unpopular with them because I'd had some of their mates hauled across the coals for misdemeanours. It wasn't pleasant, and to this day I don't think the company really appreciated what a miserable place that was to work.
     
    This wasn't the first time I'd been feeling a bit odd. I'd been phoning and emailing radio stations, getting hyperactive and stressed out, going on long drives around the west country for no apparent reason. Then there was that final night. It wasn't like feeling drunk, I just felt oddly chirpy. Feeling fed up with any grievances I'd had at work, I decided to do something about it. I scrawled 'Goodbye and thanks for all the fish' on the board, and text'd somebody on my mobile that I was on my way. Don't know who it was, but I knew they'd understand. Somebody was cheering me on. From that point forward I was utterly convinced I was on some sort of quest to reach France. I was also convinced I was supposed to take people along and that they'd arranged to meet me in town. So I wandered around for an hour feeling a little disappointed at a no-show. Well, I can't wait, must reach France. So I drove out to the motorway to go east. Then it occured to me the police would be waiting to catch me. So... I'll go by the country road. That'll fox 'em... Huh? Was that a red light?... Wow, this is getting seriously foggy... Hey wait, I was supposed to pick someone up... Turn around.... Must get there quickly to pick them up... Awww I can't be doing with this, I'm going down the motorway...
     
    Eventually my car ground to a halt with some sort of breakdown, lights flashing on the dashboard all over the place... This was a freezing cold november morning and I phoned for recovery. I think the police telephonist got the gist of what I was rambling on about. The return to Rushey Platt was a sobering experience. I froze for an hour waiting for a tow. I froze for another two hours at railway station carpark waiting for a tow back in the right direction.
     
    I lost the job. You might not be entirely suprised at that. So I suppose the idiot who spiked my drinks at work with whatever substance that was felt pleased with his handiwork. It was a miracle I wasn't picked up for driving under the influence - I daresay that would have pleased him more. How would he have felt if I'd crashed? Killed? Disabled? Or would he have been satisified with death and injury on the roads if an innocent person or two had been unlucky enough?
  5. caldrail
    Time to get on with my search for gainful employment. I think I'll phone Jobseekers Direct - its a happy friendly service to help idiots like me get a job by finding vacancies on their extensive database. After the usual identity checks the woman asked me what areas of employment I was interested in.
     
    Warehouse, distribution, logisitics.
     
    "We've got one vacancy for a warehouse supervisor.."
     
    North Swindon? Yes I've applied for that.
     
    "Well thats all we've got. Have you done any stock control?"
     
    Just a little bit. Go on, give me the details... She started to give an email address to send my CV. Then something twigged. That name! He's one of those managers who pushed me out the door at a previous job! Lets not bother with that one.
     
    "I see" She said slowly, "Ok, we'll try part time too."
     
    Eh? No, hang on...
     
    "There's a stockroom vacancy. You need to call in at Smartypants Ltd at the Designer Outlet to collect an application form. Do you know where that is?"
     
    Sigh. I can find it. Fine, thank you, thats all I need. Good grief, working for a retailer in a shopping mall... Don't they do long hours there?.... This does not bode well. Too late now. I've got to visit the sports center today so I'll drop in on Smartypants on the way home. Just in case it rains.
     
    It did. Heavy showers were predicted and sure enough the rain came pelting down. Sensibly I stayed under cover. An old woman didn't and wandered out into the car park, swivelling 180 degrees on the spot when she realised she was getting wet. It really was quite funny to watch. So was the hatchback driver going the wrong round the car park and failing to negotiate the corners at very low speed. Then a taxi driver drew up by the exit, decided he wasn't in the right position, then manoevered back and forth until he was satisfied his original position was correct after all. It must be the rain that does that to people. Anyway, I arrived at the Designer Outlet and wandered around until I found Smartypants Ltd, a retailer of clothes for the discerning young professional male. Which was pretty much what I didn't look like. But I stopped at the tills and enquired about getting an application form.
     
    "CALLING MANAGER TO FRONT DESK... MANAGER TO FRONT DESK PLEASE... He'll just be a minute Sir"
     
    Righto. I lean nonchanlantly against the desk and the manager comes around the corner ahead, a tall and very discernably smart young professional male. I hate bosses like that. They're always clicking their fingers at people and casually threatening termination of their employment if they don't run around like little servants. They never show any real leadership. Most of them never show any ability. As he approaches we both size each other up like gunfighters at the OK Corral. There's barely an introduction before he hands me a career application pack.
     
    It was a truly extraordinary document, a glossy colour brochure selling management careers, displaying teams of happy smiling management trainees whose prospects are now going to skyrocket to the point they can afford mortgages. I glanced through it with disbelief at the shear waste of quality cardboard. Noticing this, and assuming it was because I was unable to locate the actual forms neatly hidden in a pocket at the back, he very kindly pulled them out to show me.
     
    Thanks mate. You got a plastic bag for this? Its raining outside...
     
    "Oh yeah" He said, proceeding to rummage around behind the counter. Thank you kindly. Time to go.
     
    Initiative of the Week
    There's been a fair few stabbings in Britain of late, especially London, something we're not entirely used to and threatening to make our streets more dangerous than Los Angeles. So not suprisingly there's about to be some new measures to combat knife crime, and not a moment too soon, seeing as some people in Swindon have been using samurai swords to settle differences. Come to think of it, Swindon was also the place where one guy wandered into a police station with a Bren light machine gun some years ago. At least I had the sense to surrender mine to the police in the privacy of my own home...
  6. caldrail
    Today is a different sort of day. Gone is the hazy sunshine, replaced by the all-enveloping grey clag of a typical Swindon day. Sounds like a lot of activity outside. I know they're ripping up the bit of the road they ripped up last year, but something sounded different somehow. With some curiosity then I glanced out from the curtains and... Huh?
     
    Almost the length of of the bottom half of the hill is lined with plastic barricades. Contractors lorries are parked all along the area set aside for demolition. Getting a kebab now is going to require a major expedition. Might pop down the outward bound shop and pick up a good deal on mountaineering equipment. You never know. Hunger might get the better of me.
     
    As You Might Expect
    As you might expect with a typical Swindon day, there's a not a lot to report. In fact, the only notable trend worthy of attention by the outside world is the sudden fashion for eating at the library. They're all at it. As soon as it gets quiet out come the snack bags, rustling tin foil and crunching jaws, the perpetrators oblivious to how annoying their habit is, and I suspect they wouldn't care if they knew.
     
    Interesting thing is though that mobile phones aren't competing for my attention. Not a ring tone to be heard. No very important business decisions, position reports, or in depth analysis of personal problems. I wish it was that blissful, but unfortunately...
     
    Rustle crackle rustle... Chomp chomp crunch chomp....
  7. caldrail

    A Few Goodbyes

    By caldrail,

    There's only word for it - gutted. Miss T has decided that our friendly department store isn't for her and she's arranged to get work experience at another one. So it looks like I won't be flirted with for the time being. Funny how you only miss these little interactions when they vanish. Never mind. I'm sure she'll make up for lost time at our next session together.
     
    You see, that's how to survive the dreary tedium of joblessness.... Get a blonde to flirt with you. Works for me.
     
    Ousted
    Mister G was a guy at our work experience session. He's a distinctive chap, a tall afro-carribean guy who looks like an aboriginee in a down-and-out coat. Apparently his work experience placement weren't too impressed with his appearance and told him he wasn't supposed to be there, so he simply took everyone else with him back to his place to smoke a spliff. Class. Sheer class.
     
    It's apparent that he feels a need to be high all the time. When he isn't smoking suspicious substances he's taking swigs from a subtlely concealed bottle. When he isn't doing either he's asleep, dozing away despite the best efforts of our advisor to keep him interested in word games to further his education.
     
    In a sense it's sad, but he's been ousted, dropped from the course, possibly facing a loss of benefits. A part of me suspects it won't hurt him financially too much. It certainly won't make any difference to the cannabis cloud hanging over east Swindon. KS tells me he once got a placement at the same place and stayed there for ten weeks without getting mugged. An achievement he reckons. I believe him.
     
    Demolition At Last?
    People have been busy at the Old College site just across the yard from where I live. Cars coming and going from the back entrance, Men In Suits wandering around taking photographs (and admiring my much maligned car too. Four thousand quid and it's yours, mate... Oh suit yourself...). You have to laugh. Are they seriously going to build a new shopping centre with our old ones 20% empty?
  8. caldrail

    A Few Less Journeys

    By caldrail,

    It had to happen. I've watched news reports and read the papers about how one company after another has raised energy prices enormously, and felt very smug that mine hadn't.
     
    Until now....
     
    Usually I get pamphlets from them telling me about various offers and schemes (which cost money of course) but this time I got the letter that said sorry, but you're going to have to pay more. They're raising my electricity and gas prices by a third. Ouch! But then the prices they pay are nearly 200% higher, so can I complain? Well... Yes. Because I'm currently on benefits and I doubt they'll give me any more to cover the costs. The government have said they want to help those struggling to meet bills. Go on then. Or shall I vote for someone else? Tell you what, a few less holidays, plush apartments, and kitchen upgrades at the tax-payers expense might help me through the winter this year.
     
    Interview of the Week
    My quarterly benefits interview took place yesterday, and the young lady did her best to come across as professional and knowledgable. She told me with some bureaucratic enthusiasm about a scheme to get people to interviews at long distances.
     
    Great I said. But once I get the job, who pays for the travel? You won't.
     
    She didn't like that. I spoiled her moment of glory there with a dose of practicality, something these job agency people really don't consider since they never have to deal with it. They talk about public transport as if its a free service door to door. It isn't. So I'll stick to local employers thank you, and save some money by making a few less journeys like that.
  9. caldrail
    I was walking through Lydiard Park on my home from a hike in the country the other day. The weather was officially sunshine and showers, though as it hadn't rained, the ground was pasable and there were some excellent cloudy skies, full of mood and drama. I'd write a poem but lets be honest, I'm not poetic in the slightest, and since a picture tells a thousand words, I took some photo's instead. None of which were any good. C'est la vie.
     
    Anyway, I came round the corner of the house (Open to the public but in thirty years I've never bothered to go in) and sat munching on its latest victim was this enormous great dane, looking absolutely elegant and the very epitome of englishness in the georgian setting of mansion and landscaped grounds.
     
    I asked the lady owner if I could take a photo. She looked a bit suprised, also a bit like she was expecting some sort of chat-up line, but she was happy enoug to let me do so. I made a quip about getting a photo before the dog ate me. I knelt down, set the camera, and the dog got curious. "No no no, stay there!"
     
    To no avail. The great dane trotted across and stared me in the face as only a dog the size of a siberian bear can do. It wasn't wagging its tail, just smelling my face, and I had the curious preminition of losing whatever facial features I had in this animals quest for sustenance.
     
    The owner, bless her, came to my rescue and the dog obediently sat back down where it had been. I got the photo. In actual fact the great dane wasn't being aggressive at all, it was merely curious and none too impressed with me. I'll try to do better next time Fido.
     
    Encounter of the Week
    During my hike through the wilderness of Wiltshire earlier, I passed by two women of mature age who were a little worried about passing a cow stood astride the footpath.
     
    "Its a cow" I told them, "She's more more scared of you."
     
    "Oh" They said, "We thought it might be like a bull"
     
    Groan. Anatomy obviously wasn't taught in their day. As it happened I met them again going the other way later on. I said hello and one of them mentioned it was an amusing coincidence that we were passing again.
     
    "Well I had to," I said, "I was worried the cow might have eaten you."
  10. caldrail

    A Great Day?

    By caldrail,

    There's an advert on television for fruit juice. A man goes to work through San Francisco and announces to his radio audience that 'Today os gonna be a great day'.
     
    Well, I won't be buying any fruit juice, but yes, this morning feels very much like that. Except Swindon isn't on the Bay of Angels and there aren't any trams going up and down Victoria Hill any more. To be honest, Swindon really isn't all that exotic. Somehow I think choosing San Francisco for the advert was a better choice.
     
    But hey, breathe in that cool spring air. There's a hazy clear sky and a genuibnely good mood. Even BFL has stopped grabbing everyones attention this morning (She's such a hypocrite. When she wants silence, moan moan whinge bicker. When she wants to talk, do you mind? She's talking).
     
    No, I won't get sidetracked. Today is gonna be a great day. With or without fruit juice.
     
    Last Night
    It was dark as I ambled home from a last minute dash to th shops to resupply my rations. In the clear night sky, the moon was visible as a dark disc, lit on one side as a glowing arc. Almost in front of it a solitary airliner crossed the sky leaving a contrail, an odd sight in darkness, and the overall effect was surreal, like fifties sci-fi artwork.
  11. caldrail
    Yesterday I ran out of space on my job search card so it's down to the job center to ask for another. As expected there was a mass of bemused dole claimants milling around while harassed security guards do their best to sound important. Ok, here we go...
     
    I brush past the lines of ex-car manufacturers and single mothers to confront a guard. Can I have one of these please?
     
    "Wots that then?"
     
    Its a job search record. I need a new one.
     
    "Why do you need a new one?"
     
    Ok. take a close look at exhibit A. One secondhand job search booklet, all filled in... you see? I ran out of space. Now I need a new one.
     
    "Uhhhh... Right.... Wait there mate."
     
    He strolled off to find out from someone else what I was talking about. He returned fully informed, smiles all round, confident that his efficient security guard image was still secure.
     
    On the way out I was stopped by some guy with a notepad. My celebrity instincts immediately gave me that tingly feeling. He introduced himself as a journalist from the local rag, and asked would I mind being interviewed?
     
    Try to look calm and disinterested Caldrail. Stay cool. It's only a local newspaper...
     
    Security Guard of the Week
    Definitely goes to the fat guy wandering around the library. If ever a man was unaware of his own insignificance, its him. The reason being he gives anyone who asks him a question a full ten minute lecture on what to do, where to do it, how it should be done, who to do it with.
     
    I get the impression he doesn't get out much at nights.
  12. caldrail
    Yesterday was not a high point in my life. My credit card was withdrawn. Such a simple little thing isn't it? Just a small rectangle of plastic that allows you spend some of other peoples money provided you pay it back. You might immediately assume that I got into debt by using one. Not so. They withdrew it because I don't use it enough. Profit and loss you see. Due to a technicality in financial assessment, I can't have a replacement card. The tragedy is that I'm now excluded from buying goods and services on the internet.
     
    Some might wonder why that is such a big deal. Well, having gotten used to buying from the internet, it reduces my choice and freedom somewhat drastically. It reduces me to a second class citizen, unable to sample the wealth of consumerism for myself.
     
    Apart from the expected tantrums and despair, I was appalled to realise how easily the balance in our lives can be disturbed by outside influence. I shouldn't be. I've being saying for a long time that fate is the sum of all decisions and natural forces. Now it seems a decision has gone aganst me. And you know what? My caring sharing bank really isn't interested. It is the bank that llikes to say "We have your money so now get lost".
     
    Help Yourself
    A litle while back I was sat in hospital waiting room. Most of those in there with me were older folk, skinny gentlemen who shuffled here and there, obese women women who waddled and leant on a walking stick. All of us silent, bored, simply waiting our turn.
     
    There was a colourful pamphlet on a table that seemed the only refuge from the miserable scene I found myself in. A guide to life, as it turns out, wrapped up in a rainbow coloured cover. The language was quite extraordinary. As an example of selh-help literature it ranks with the most extreme I've ever seen, but it really didn't need the advertisments for Jesus written into it. Something of a confidence trick then. A booklet that suggests not only your life can be better, but that Jesus is responsible for that change.
     
    I threw the document back on the desk. It really was too much to swallow, like food so heavily spiced that it makes you cough and splutter. Having watched Derren Browns recent denounciation of the faith healer industry on television, it all fitted the pattern.
     
    Normally I launch into some sort of criticism of christianity at this point. Truth of the matter is that their tactics to recruit new members aren't entirely unique. Such things are sometimes done by other agencies who want you to do this or that with your life.
     
    Some might argue that it's time to pick up the rainbow coloured pamphlet. Read its content. Digest the message. Turn my life around. I've said before also that christian missionaries are no better than drug dealers. Feeling bad? Have a shot of Jesus up your arm. You'll feel great. Except that I don't think it really does. Like the idea that we can live forever if we worship, the idea that our lives will actiually be any better simply by deciding it's going to be is among the great confidence tricks of religion.
     
    You see we still have the problem that other people can influence whether we're successful or not. Right now I'm under pressure to stop being a personality. Nothing to do with maturity or manners, just that I conform to someone elses expectation. Because I resist, because I want to be me, my life is slowly dismantled so that I become psychologically weaker, and whether the influence is religion, employment, politics, or any other authoritarian group, I will be readjusted. Told what to say, do, and wear. Do I really want to be a robot for the rest of my life?
     
    There's a empty shop not far from where I live. In the window is a large photo montage, an artistic display on the theme of despair and empowerment. Do something strange and extraordinary, it tells us in bold type, so that your life will be better. I'd be happy to Unfortunately it seems too many people don't like me doing that.
  13. caldrail

    A Matter of Choice

    By caldrail,

    The frozen slush and hard packed snow has turned to an undulating sheet of ice outside my home. On a downhill pavement, it's fairly lethal. Looks like I'm going to have to break my back and shovel my way to the shops to prevent broken bones. What a choice.
     
    Choices of the Week
    Every year you see the same adverts. Lovable pets in help center cages looking mournful. The message is always "A pet is not just for Christmas" and I agree wholeheartedly. Not everyonme does it seems, and in the papers was a report of a puppy left in a sealed box by the roadside.
     
    The callousness of its last owners is obvious, but it also strikes me that a suprise gift of a pet is the daftest idea for pet you could possibly consider. It may be that someones dog has had puppies unintentionally and they're trying to rid themselves of the unwanted animals by handing them as gifts to friends and so forth, but you can't help wondering how thoughtless the gift was, never mind the death sentence meted out by the recipients.
     
    In this case the dog was rescued. There's no guarantee it will find responsible owners. As for the irresponsible ones, a part of me wants to seal them up in a container and let them freeze. The other part wants them named and shamed. then again, with all these pro-animal sentiments and responsible attitudes, why is there is no clear cut procedure for passing on unwanted animals? Because, much like human children born to unmarried teenagers, they simply get in the way and cost money.
  14. caldrail
    In the beginning, God said "Let there be light". And he saw that it was good. So good in fact that we human beings have invented little contrivances to achieve the same result ever since. First we invented fire (and what fun we've had with that!), and finally in the 21st century we've reached the very pinnacle of light engineering, that silly little thing screwed into the ceiling of my bathroom. Unfortunately, and much to my chagrin, I'm not God, so now the blessed thing has stopped working.
     
    Also, being a mere mortal, the mysterious workings of this lighting device are beyond my experience, and lacking the divine ability to fix and create with a flick of my fingers, I popped down to the letting agent and asked if they could send a man to see to it. Not an emergency, of course, but when you have the time. They smiled and I parted in a good mood.
     
    The time and date was set - and no-one came. I exchanged a few mobile texts in which the contractor claimed I was not present, not listening, or not co-operating, but I answered all of those and he rang me eventually to set another time and date the following day.
     
    And no-one came. So the following morning I was straight down to the letting agents office to let them know that this was going on. They arranged another time that afternoon. "You will switch your phone on?" The lady asked as I was about to leave. The cheek of it! yes, the phone will be on.
     
    A little later than the specified time the contractor phoned me and told me his boy was outside knocking on the wrong door. Could I let him in? I assumed he meant my own premises and I duly went downstairs and opened the door. No-one there. Then a foreign handyman, a young polish lad of indifferent demeanour and speaking unexceptional pidgin english, popped his head out of the downstairs flat below where I live and told me he couldn't do anything because he didn't have the parts. What? But.... He buried his nose in his mobile phone and closed the door on me.
     
    I was infuriated. I called the maintenance department of the letting agent and related my woes. Actually I don't think they were all too suprised to hear my complaint and she dragged the contractor away from his coffee to speak to me. He rattled off apology No 34 and tried to get me to accept another time this morning. Oh? Can he get the parts to fix my bathroom light in 24 hours? I'm not falling for that one. I stopped him short and requested he arrive on the following Tuesday. That should give him enough time.
     
    He agreed to the time and date, possibly with witnesses at his end. Then he added "But I might not be able to turn up."
     
    I got annoyed. What is the point of setting a time and date for a repair if you've no intention of keeping it? I've sat there for three afternoons and all I've gotten so far is 'tough luck mate' and some guy airily telling me over the phone that he doesn't answer to me and doesn't like being spoken to in such a manner. Oh really? Then maybe a good policy might be to not fob off your customers.
     
    They're All At It, You Know
    At times like this I wish my title had some medieval authority. I'd have that idiot boiled in oil. Take a deep breath and forget the self-important cowboy the letting agent use for domestic repairs. It's still insufferably hot and I just can't be bothered to do anything but watch television. Good grief, I've watched more television in the last month than I have over the last year!
     
    It seems the channel lists have changed and I need to retune my receiver. Luckily my receiver was designed to be used by people over the age of nine and thus was a simple and quick procedure. Now I even more shop-at-home channels advertising great new gizmos that no home could possibly do without, and exactly the sort of item you stuff in the cupboard and never use twice.
     
    The energetic young american with a microphone headpiece (don't they have recording equipment in that tv studio?) is squeezing water from a piece of space age cloth that is apparently a miracle of science. Give me a break. The only miracle here is whether I'd part money for that tatty old rag. What a con.
  15. caldrail
    No matter how long you've lived in Britain you never learn. By sheer chance I heard a weather forecast and guess what? Our balmy relaxing weather is about to go siberian again. I must admit we did get sleet on sunday. Today though is a slightly chilly sunny day. No-one would know it was monday morning.
     
    Of course having watched Kate Humble breathlessly roam the globe to show us what a breathtakingly wondrous planet we live on, I now know that Britain sits under a boundary between arctic and tropical air flows, thus our unpredictable weather is the result of an atmospheric battle for supremacy.
     
    Now I know. And I thought is was just my bad luck every time I get drenched.
     
    Puppet Shows
    As regular readers will know, I was a fan of the Thunderbirds puppet series when I was at a very young age. Back then televisions were steam powered and only came in black'n'white, so it was either that or
     
    As I get older I start to wonder what inspired Gerry Anderson to create an island of recluses who fly supersonic aircraft to disasters spots around the world without feeling the need to tender their bill? Jolly generous of the lads from Tracey Island, but the other day I realised why. The series was inspired by none other than the Salvation Army. Same stiff upright movement and stirring band music.
     
    Question Of The Week
    There's something I've never quite understood. I don't mean cosnological physics, although quantum theory is a bit wierd even if you paid attention at school, nor do I mean government policy which turns out to be no more than the blind leading the blind. For that matter nor does human relationships confuse me. All a matter of the right aftershave or if that fails, either hit something or buy pornography.
     
    No. My problem is far more significant to modern culture. Why do women like Meatloaf? The band, I mean. Some of them even describe it as rock music. Now I could excuse that if they've never bothered to go out with the long haired geek when they were younger, but surely western civilisation has become more sophisticated than that?
     
    When you come to think of it, how could Meatloaf pretend to be anything other than he is? But against the glitzy image of stretch limo's, gold encrusted hoodlums, and handguns held in the silliest possible manner, how does a slightly large older person with bad hair and a sweat problem cut it with the ladies?
     
    There is an argument that the appeal of Meatloaf is that it represents something alternative in the toneless world of rap, drum & bass, R'n'B, or all those other video releases that have a guy in sunglasses pretending to be Al Capone. Girls, please, discover music before you start looking like your mum.
  16. caldrail

    A Matter Of Time

    By caldrail,

    In one of the science magazines lately they devoted an issue to Time. What is it? How much does it cost? What could you do with it if you could afford it? It's a remarkable thing that we experience one moment after another but that causes us to assume we know what time is. So helpless are scientists to explain exactly what Time is that instead of turning to Professor Cox, they're asking philosophers to explain it. Proof therefore that Time is an illusion.
     
    Unfortunately for everyone knowing that Time isn't real doesn't prevent monday mornings from happening on a regular basis. I should know - I've suffered at least fifty in the last year alone. So for those of you who now think that the passage of Time is something you can safely ignore, please be advised that your boss will not accept sensory phenomena as this weeks fun excuse for being late for work. Trust me on that.
     
    That Time OF Year
    The end of january is upon us and with it the inevitable chill of february.As if to confirm that observation the weather typically grey and cold. Not the sharp chill we associate with snow and ice, but that dreary dampness that causes old fogeys like me to complain about how our poor old bones are suffering. You know what I mean. If not, ask your grandad. I'm sure he'll tell you..
     
    Truth is this winter has been remarkably mild. So far we've hardly had a frost at all. Only now are the weathermen beginning to warn us that some areas might see a light snowfall. Certainly not enough to convince the boss that you're being honest about struggling with blizzard conditions. Another little tip there.
     
    About Time Too
    Just this morning on Russia Today is the astonishing revelation that US and Taliban representatives are meeting in Qatar for talks on building trust. A few less IED's might help.
     
    It is however a very interesting development. We all know that the west is tired of the continual sniping and sweeping that wars like that in Afghanistan entail, yey the doggedness of allied presence in the middel east seems to have finally persuaded the Taliban that the only way to get rid of the Great Statn is to persuade it not to hit them anymore.
     
    Not On Time?
    Recently the removal of the Whalebridge roundabout has caused considerable traffic delays for those avoiding the South Swindon Bypass at Wichelstowe. Now I see traffic is avoiding the former Whalebridge site altogether and instead using a rat run through the nearby residential area. Lo and behold there's a long queue of cars every morning in what used to be a quiet street all utterly convinced they're getting around the delays on what is now an empty dual carriageway.
     
    Sheesh. Build a road and no-one wants to use it... What is the world coming to? I must therefore conclude that todays best chances of persuading the boss that you can't make it into work is that your car is currently trapped in a wintery time-space anomaly caused by Taliban insurgents on the Princes Street Carriageway.
  17. caldrail

    A Matter Of Time

    By caldrail,

    According to the BBC, ten million of you watched the Dr Who special marking the 50th year of time travelling mayhem and alien invasions of Earth. I strongly suspect far fewer of you are going to be reading this, but who knows, perhaps one day this blog will survive the ravages of time and become an indispensible guide to how life in Swindon really was before Professor Cox was proved right.
     
    I do note however one aspect of Day Of The Doctor that most people might not have noticed. The good Doctor turns out to have been an utter cad. He sent Rose Tyler into exile in another dimension so he could snog Elizabeth 1st. Perhaps worse than that, children have learned that our foremost warrior queen married a nine hundred year old alien with really bad fashion sense. No wonder she kept that secret.
     
    Dr Cox
    A little while ago I spotted a news item on Yahoo in which Professor Brian Cox was quoted as saying that time travel was possible. I disagree with him vehemently and posted a somewhat sarky comment to that effect. You see, he says that einsteinian time dilation due to excessive speed allows a traveller to go into the future. I say it doesn't, because the traveller hasn't left his own present and cannot move independently of his own local time, thus he isn't time travelling at all. Physics is really easy when you don't listen to physics lecturers.
     
    Lo and behold within days a lecture by Professor Cox was aired on television in which he discussed whether time travel was possible. Actually he spent most of the lecture dazzling his audience with the inner mysteries of light cones, and only at the very end suggested a possible time travel paradigm. He said that if you could warp space so that the end met the beginning, then hurtling through space at near-light speed would get you into the past.
     
    He is of course wrong. If he was right, all it wouldl do is get you ten penalty points on your license and a three month ban on driving time machines. Not only are there speed cameras everywhere,to catch you flashing past at 186,000 miles per second, your arrival at your destination will very likely be in the history books and therefore you're guilty as charged. According to the history books I've read, no-one from the future ever turned up.
     
    He did confess that the energy required to warp space like that would be enormous but tried to inspire the television audience to try anyway. Clearly he hasn't dealt with energy companies. If he had, he would know that no-one in Britain could afford to power their time machine.
     
    Survival Without Central Heating Update
    Cold... So cold...
     
    Time Machine Of The Week
    So you want to follow the good professors advice and build a time machine? Well, you don't need to build a weird victorian chair with rotating umbrella, a 60's police box, or a huge underground complex in the American desert. Just follow my simple instructions and you can travel through time.
     
    Step 1 - Sit comfortably.
     
    Step 2 - Wait. Twiddle thumbs if necessary.
     
    Step 3 - Done. Finished. You have just travelled through time according to Professor Cox. Admittedly you won't be able to snog Elizabeth 1st, battle Daleks, or act the idiot with a sonic screwdriver, but there you go.
     
    You see, in order to travel into the past or future then the past or future has exist in order to visit it. That means that Time must be dimensional, which unfortunately for Professor Cox means the past is already defined, and since the future is merely a part of the Time dimension we haven't reached yet, it too is pre-determined , which means there's nothing you can do. The bank will foreclose on your mortgage, Schrodingers Cat will die of starvation, and the number 10 bus will squash your dog. There's nothing you can do because Time is already defined.
     
    As for me, I say time travel cannot possibly happen because there isn't any Time, only Now. A single existentent moment that changes on a quantum level incredibly fast like a stop-frame movie with a frame rate of billions upon trillions upon quadrillions of frames a second, varying locally according to such einsteinian things like speed and gravity. All the atoms that made Julius Caesar still exist, albeit seperated and changed. A vibrating universe that has no past or future, merely a present that experiences Change. Time is therefore not a seperate existence, dimension, or place you can visit, just our experience of Change.
     
    Sadly I can't compete with Professor Cox when it comes to inviting celebrity audiences to a television physics lecture, but I've taken your advice Brian. I've made a start. Trouble is, my time machine cannot possibly work.
  18. caldrail
    For some strange reason I woke bright and early this morning. For a reason probably easier to understand I wobbled dangerously as I overconfidently got out of bed. Oh well, start as you mean to continue.
     
    As usual I made a brief glance out the window to check what sort of weather awaits me today. The horizon was buried under thick grey clag, a sort of dark fog, and at first sight it looked as if I was expecting a very damp morning.
     
    By the time i was washed, dressed, and ready to take on the world outside my front door, the sky was an almost clear blue. Is this the same day? You'd hardly know.
     
    Meanwhile, Back At The Library
    My first stop today was another interwebbing session on the library computers. Nothing much to report except the presence of Mr Fidget, who seems to have an uncanny ability to find a vacant computer next to mine.
     
    Normally he's the most irrating person to be sat next to, but when the town hall clock struck eleven, he clasped his hands to his ears and remained motionless for nearly a whole minute.
     
    That gives me a great idea. Who do I see to have the bells ring out every minute? I know, I'll look it up on the internet....
     
    Darn. Can't find anything except everyone elses town hall bells and a great many local pubs. Obviously Swindon's bells are covered by the Official Secrets Act. Maybe I could apply to be Swindons bell-ringer? All I need is to develop a hunched back and sweep Esmerelda off her feet. How hard can that be?
     
    Meanwhile, Back At The programme Centre
    My advisor at the programme centre asked me how I was getting on with my job search. Not too bad as it happens, although today I had to wade through an online application form and they're never quick.
     
    Whatever hapened to lightning fast information technology? Typing answers into boxes that contain enough space for six keypresses is not my idea of fun. You have to reformat the whole thing as you go, and as the orignal email tells me, I have to do this today or fail to meet the dealine. How about that for working under pressure?
     
    "Have you had any accidents today?" He asked me some anticipation. No, sorry, I've taken the day off regarding accidents.
     
    "I imagine so," He agreed, "Since I so cruelly mocked your efforts at negotiating the pavement".
     
    Yeah you did, didn't you! I suppose that was some psychological technique aimed at developing my sense of self-worth and creating a robust personality ready to take on the disappointments of seeking employment in a cut-throat enviroment, but in all honesty, it didn't work.
     
    He laughed nonetheless.
  19. caldrail
    Many years ago I wanderd into a pub, expecting genial conversation and relaxing with the other hustlers around the pool tables. On that particular afternoon, the pub was almost empty, and since I was the only person walking in, the scotsman drinking at the bar immediately engaged me in a chat.
     
    Before long the conversation got to how brilliant Scotland was. Best country in the UK, best country in Europe, best country in the world. There was no stopping the man. As Scotlands first unofficial Minister For Propaganda he was doing a grand job. Finally I could stand no more. I retreated and sought other people to talk to, people with interesting news or funny jokes, people who understood that a scottish accent does not legally demand attention from passers-by. Finally he realised he had failed to convert me to scottishism. He got quite annoyed.
     
    Mind you, if Scotland was such a great place, why did I keep hearing the scots complain about it? If it comes to that, you had to ask yourself what this solitary scotsman was doing in a Swindon bar if his homeland was quite that good, but there you go.
     
    So now Scotland wants independence? Some of the scots do, especially the politicians who seek to glorify their names for having achieved it. The funny thing is though that the United Kingdom came into being not because Scotland was conquered, but because a scottish king inherited England, Wales, and Ireland after Good Queen Bess popped her clogs without provision for an heir. Okay, I know James II did a runner and the dutch were invited in, but all the same the irony of this situation is that Scotland effectively wants to be independent of the realm it set up.
     
    This should also serve as an illustration of what the European Union can expect if they attempt to go further with integration - which they inevitably will, because as we see from history, those who want to rule rather like ruling as much as they can get. My point is that however many boundaries they change, however much they hand out euro-compatible names, nationalism will never go away. People identify with cultural roots no matter how divorced they are from their heritage. Look what happened in the balkans after Yugoslavia finally fell apart.
     
    On a more serious note, I hope these scottish politicians don't expect the UK to pay their bills? If they want their own chequebook, they don't need ours.. Oh yeah. If that scotsman is reading this, please stop talking.
     
    Pooh
    In one of those colourful community newsletters that sometimes pass my way I noticed a paragraph concerning the lamentable state of our pavements. Nothing to do with potholes or drainage, but the amount of dog pooh left lying on them. Maybe that was why the scotsman I encountered was so unimpressed with english prosperity?
     
    That makes me a bit curious. The amount of pooh I see today is nothing compared to how it was in the less responsible seventies. Back then you needed to watch where you put your feet. Nowadays you might be unlucky. Not just where you put your feet either. Toddlers in the last few years have adopted the idea that throwing pooh is funny. That disgusting habit hasn't gone away since it emerged and I discovered I'd been targeted a couple of weeks ago. Nine times out of ten you don't know until you spot strange stains appearing around the house.
     
    What bothers me though is the attitude of their parents, invariably young themselves, who seem to do absolutely nothing to correct their little darlings, and on one or two occaisions I've even wondered if those parents spurred their kids on to do it. Chances are it's only one or two individuals who would dream of doing that. In the local newsaper the police have taken the unusual step of naming and shaming four scoundrels who have, in a town in excess of 60,000 people, committed more than half of the burglaries reported in the last year.
     
    Thing is though, as bad as this all sounds, what ought to be remembered is why individuals are allowed to continue making peoples lives hell. Community spirit does appear to somewhat fickle, doesn't it?
  20. caldrail

    A Poor Showing

    By caldrail,

    The lady on the supermarket till is an endangered species these days. They're all being replaced by robots. Well, until a bunch of guys with dark suits and sunglasses escort this particular lady to a large black vehicle waiting outside, I'll avail myself of the customer service.
     
    "Are you going to Fairford?" She asked. I looked out the window, surveyed the grey clouds and damp ground, and said no, I wasn't. She meant of course the RIAT air display, our annual traffic jam north of Swindon. Fairford is a bit far to walk anyhow.
     
    Usually on a RIAT weekend you know there's an air display going on. Crowds gather in Swindon shopping centres. Formations of jet aeroplanes cruise overhead. This year I witnessed none of that. Only on the sunday did I spot a distant pair of aircraft turning west of Swindon. Only once did I hear that familiar distant roar of afterburners fading in and out.
     
    What a miserable day for an airshow. Low cloud, patchy rainfall, and actually quite blustery. Worth a few hours wait to get out of the car park afterward?
     
    Couldn't Get To RIAT?
    Yesterday, as you all know, I was taking a wander out into the local countryside while it still exists. On my way back along the disused railway (I know its a cycle path these days but I remember it with tracks still present) I heard an approaching aeroplane. An unfamiliar metallic vibrato.
     
    To my pleasant suprise a 1940's Beech twin flew over about five hundred feet up, taking care to stay below cloud level on what was also a none too sunny day. I watched the silver painted aircraft head southeast toward the Marlborough Downs. Well, I might not have been able to get to RIAT, but that was a nice little airshow all of my own.
     
    Poor Show Lads
    I am unashamedly a Top Gear fan. Or rather, I enjoy the show and remain fanatical about some of the more extreme cars they enjoy driving on our behalf. It's a public service they provide.
     
    Another public service was the burning of a caravan, this one the buffet car on the Audi train. Maybe it's just me, but wasn't that a bit predictable? They got away with doing a fire on a camping holiday in Devon. The jokes been done twice now and it's wearing thin. We viewers demand more for our license fee. Why wasn't the entire train set alight? They could have burned the Audi too. How we would have smiled.
     
    I suppose I can forgive them for that, the reason being being they hit a lower point still. Having invited Rowan Atkinson onto the show, what do they do? Hand him a list of words to say in a funny voice. The audience obediently tittered when required, but be honest, it wasn't funny. It wasn't amusing. If you're going to interview a celebrity, then give him something more interesting to say. Like a witty story maybe?
     
    Not their finest moment.
     
    Laugh of the Week
    Bob.
     
    Aww come on, it worked for Rowan Atkinson. Oh great, now I'll have to think of a joke. No wait, I don't have to, because I've just spent the last two days phoning a woman at a job agency who tried to phone me. Apparently she can't understand that I don't live in an office, and I can't understand why she does.
  21. caldrail

    A Quest Completed

    By caldrail,

    Early this morning, before first light, I trudged along the route to the test centre. It's located in small industrial estate (the map pointed at an alleyway a hundred yards further on) and as I turned the corner I spotted one of my trainee colleagues leaning against the wall, as the premises weren't open just yet.
     
    As I got closer, I noticed he wasn't moving. Curious... Hello mate? How are you this morning?... No answer. He just leaned there immobile, well and truly asleep. Poor lad. I let him gather a few winks in peace. Like me he would soon be subjected to long waits and short bursts of frenetic forklifting.
     
    The Results Of Frenetic Forklifting
    Yeh verily I have journeyed far to complete my quest. For twenty years I have struggled in the wilderness, but at last, the mythical and legendary forklift license is mine. Apart some dumb mistakes as the test began, I conducted the entire test routine in a respectable nineteen minutes out of the thirty or so allowed, and scored eleven demerits, an above-average result for a novice forklifter. I'm quite chuffed. All that bearing in mind I haven't driven a forklift truck before and indeed, haven't driven any vehicle at all for nearly three years.
     
    Ah well. Back to the daily grind. Let's see what jobs are on offer this week...
     
    At Last!
    Not only have this day seen me rise to the ranks of forklifthood, but the new heaters turned up. Warm air! Oodles of lovely soothing hotness!
  22. caldrail

    A Quiet Day

    By caldrail,

    Looks like this could be a quiet day. Not sure why exactly, though the lack of noise appears to confirm my hypothesis. Only a solitary ring tone interrupted our silent vigil at the library this morning. Everyone turned and looked over their shoulder.
     
    Normally you get a ceratin proportion of people who ignore protocol and good manners in a desperate urge to tell someone else loudly where they happen to be right now. Not today. The embarrased owner of the mobile phone didn't even attempt to whisper a reply. What a refreshing change.
     
    The Lady Who Objects To My Internet Use seems to be the only person doing much right now. The other day she silenced a naughty young child who ignored the parental demand for silence simply by walking up close. It was almost as if she'd reached for the 'off' button. Today she's striding here and there, clearly on a mission, and I notice she made sure to glance over my shoulder to see which website I was accessing.
     
    Except she couldn't because I was typing this in a text editor. Saved by the blog.
     
    Horribly Wrong
    It's all gone horribly wrong for Swindon's roads. Our new junction to replace the Whalebridge Roundabout has caused no end of delays and tailbacks. Just as I predicted. Even better it the news that a new bypass in south Swindon is more or less empty. Nobody uses it. "Please use our bypass" Say concerned councillors.
     
    The problem is that the new bypass links two routes in and out of the town centre. There seems to be this idea that in the rush hour drivers wanting to pass through Swindon centre can now avoid the jams, except that at rush hour everyone wants to access Swindon town centre. If you use this road to escape a traffic jam, you simply find yourself in another at the other end. Which brain cell thought of that one?
     
    I applied for the job of road planner when it came up a couple of years ago. Obviously I didn't get the post, but let's be honest, the chap who got it isn't making a very good impression, is he?
  23. caldrail
    "He's just a child" Sneered the woman who passed my home yesterday. A child? What an interesting comment. It does of course imply that I'm childish and thus disqualified from ordinary ecveryday respect, but I can't help feeling this is more than random verbal abuse.
     
    Let me explain. This woman is looking down her nose at me for one reason and one reason only. It's got nothing to do with my behaviour as such - there are more than enough childish men around, just ask any woman, we never grow up. It's nothing to do with my hobbies and interests, which are no different to many other peoples. It's nothing to do with my fashion sense, or rather the lack of it. It is entirely to do with conformity.
     
    Yes, I admit it. I do not conform. Because I'm not a shaven haired oaf who smokes, fights outside nightclubs, and vomits on foreign beaches twice a year, I'm somehow below the horizon socially. Actually, given the insult was delivered by a woman, it's probably to do with relationships, or in my case, the lack of them.
     
    Experience has taught me that when women start lambasting me as a lesser species in some way, it's because one of her friends is disappointed that I haven't asked her out. Trouble is, these women assume I'm psychic, that I instinctively know the love lorn lady wants wild passionate sex (and babies... And a wallet... And so on...). They never tell you though. That would be too simple, wouldn't it? Why do women assume that we want to ask them out? Or worse still, that we have some obligation to do so?
     
    Okay, she thinks I'm a child. So what? I think she's an idiot.
     
    Please Don't
    The supermarket has definitely adopted the festive spirit. Piped seasonal music played continuously. The lady on the checkout sat with a strangely rigid smile on her face, a sort of contorted 'I'm suffering but I won't show it' sort of resignation. Sure enough, she was on the point of ending it all, having been subjected to christmas hits from the last thirty years played endlessly back to back, a look that said 'Help me, please!'.
     
    Sadly I'm powerless to fight the onslaught of conformity in the festive season, and the music went on. And on. And on. One customer was less concerned about the mindless repitition of former chart hits. She started dancing in the aisle in true party style.
     
    Don't. Just don't.
     
    Giving And Losing
    Christmas is a time generally known for a ritual of sending gifts to all those family members and friends you tried to ignore all year. It's expected that we do. It's the conformal thing. Sometimes though fate has other ideas.
     
    The news carried a report last night of a house in Louisiana being carried of by a swollen river. it was an astonishing site as the entire building slid off the bank and floated downstream, rocking gently in the muddy brown torrent. What shocked me though was the laughter from the presenter. I know we sometimes make light of other peoples misfortune, a human trait I sometimes fall prey to myself, but her raucous giggles were a little bit too much. That was someones home floating down the river. All their personal belongings.
     
    Withoutn wishing to be too messianic or sanctimonious about this, I do think the media have encouraged us to laugh at other peoples tragedies as much as give generously when they so decide to take it seriously. The presenter was a little bit excessive in her amusement in my view. She apologised afterward, though I'm not sure whether that was her own idea or a little voice in her earpiece. I'm sure the owners of that property will be pleased she did.
     
    Merry Christmas of the Week
    It's that time of year. I sort of knew the game was up when all those decorations were being hung from street lamps in town. it was confirmed by the torture sessions run daily at my local supermarket. Oh, and if there was any doubt, the constant urging of disembodied voices from my television to purchase every possible perfect gift for all the family was an insistent reminder of how many shopping days I had left to conform to socieities expectation of me as a typical single male with purchasing power.
     
    Enough of all that twaddle. Christmas is expensive and boring. But I daresay many of you will be enjoying this once a year chance to be nice to other people, even if a certain woman doesn't want to. So I'll wish you all a merry christmas and I'll see you in the new year.
  24. caldrail

    A Sense Of Duty

    By caldrail,

    "Why don't you revert?" My mother asked me after I'd inadvertantly whinged about what a cruel world I live in. Revert? What do you mean 'revert'?
     
    "Oh" She said with that air of confidence I would receive a revelation of commonsense as she defines it, "Go back to being Mister..."
     
    For my mother it's a matter of self esteem. She all but admitted that during our conversation. It isn't really a matter of status because she would never accept I was above her in any case, regardless of legal and social issues. Instead she has always taken great delight in popping peoples bubbles. To her, my title is an obstacle to becoming a christian, something she desires above all else. Whilst I have the title and insist on its use, I must by definition have some sense of self worth. If I lose that self worth, then surely I would turn to God or Jesus in despair at my failures in life?
     
    Why would I turn to something that I have no faith in? What she fails to grasp is that I don't believe in christian mythology at all. To me it isn't real, just a fabricated belief system designed to create social order and obedience. For her that system is perfect. She is, without doubt, the most joyless character I've ever known. Everything is about duty in her mind, and my failure to adopt the christian faith is something that rankles and continues to make her seek ways to persuade me otherwise. So blinded by her own faith, and indeed, ego, she fails to realise that all she's done is demonstrate how false christianity is. I've spoken many times about how the church always attempts to assume the moral high ground when in fact for the majority of adherents it serves as little more than an excuse to assuage their guilt for their very human sins. Don't just believe me, ask the Pope.
     
    Why would I turn to something that attempts to denigrate me? To crush me underfoot? It is interesting that there's been a sudden wave of resistance against my use of Lord, a title I hold legally. Someone doesn't like it obviously. But like many influential people with an axe to grind, that person doesn't speak to me, but instead has obedient associates make life difficult until I surrender my principles. In my mothers case, she clearly doesn't see me as anything more than a naughty child that needs to see the error of his ways.
     
    As I left my parents house on sunday, she said "Remember you're my son".
     
    Being an adult of sound mind and with legal rights and opportunities, I don't like the inference. There was a Roman writer called Cassius Dio. When I read his histories of the society he lived in, I noted that he continually mentions men being made slaves of. At first, I thought he meant literally, with these unfortunate victims being dragged off in chains. No, that's wrong. He meant people being made to act in some elses name, forced to cast aside their beliefs and principles and darn well do as they're told. But then - My mother wouldn't waste her time reading Roman history. She wouldn't understand any of it. Because it doesn't fit her own ideas of how the world should be.
     
    Her attempts to convert me are not based on moral or spiritual superiority, but spite and vanity. I find it somewhat ironic that she is, in effect, doing the devils work in the name of Christ. My mother hovers like a vulture, waiting to pounce on my dying individuality. It is therefore for me a question of free will. She doesn't like my right to choose alternatives. I imagine she didn't like what I said about that either.
     
    On A Lighter Note
    My struggle for self-determination is a bit wearisome. So lets forget that for a while. I have another four job applications to make today. The sun is shining, the man in the library who groans loudly periodically has left, the other guy has been told to switch off his mobile phone, and the little brat downstairs has been refused permission to do whatever he wanted to. So at least I'm not alone!
  25. caldrail
    There's been a four-day tanker driver strike in Britain this last week. You probably saw that on the news, or searched around for an active petrol station if you're living in Britain. The cost of fuel is rising steadily, and people are complaining. But the strike wasn't about that.
     
    The tanker drivers earn something like
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